2014.05.31

Here, actually, as it turns out, is what I really don’t didn’t like about gardening: the giant wagging, nagging finger that is was my outside. (WARNING: ugly photo overload, ahead.) It didn’t occur to me it could be banished. I didn’t know Things could get Done. I didn’t know I could look out the window and instead of disconsolate or disgraced or overwhelmed, that instead, I could be pleased.

Pleased.

How odd.

Who knew?

Not I. Not until last week, really. Though looking back, I can see the inklings began a month ago, not long after Kate’s comment, when I did a bold thing and "gardened". Alone. In the afternoon. Translation: I spent my few precious solo hours in the yard, equivalent in my book to voluntary extreme dentistry, hunched over the bricks, knifing dandelions. I can't say I enjoyed it. Indeed, I whined. Incessantly. Way, way beyond any whining I'd allow my children.

Fortunately, no one else was there to overhear.

Unfortunately, I was there.

I was awful.

But the path looked better, and my biceps felt stronger, and my nails weren't a scandal because, for once, I'd had the good sense to don gloves. (Maybe gloves exist for a reason? Maybe not everyone fancies black rings?) I moaned over all the time wasted, brushed off my brown knees, and picked up my people.

And returning home, noticed something. Here, where I'd just toiled and troubled, where I'd fervently cursed my poor time management choices, where my quote-unquote-garden was generally barreling madcap toward jungle and making me itchy with anxious? Here, there was this one bright clear spot. Clean. Tidy. Together.

Huh.

I didn’t rush to conclusions. Didn’t switch camps, didn’t suffer epiphanies. But I did vaguely entertain the question: what would happen if I kept at it? What if I cleared just one more tiny patch? What if I went all Sleeping Beauty on the rose bush, cut back the brambles, and while I was at it the ivy, also? What if, as one very wise plant person I know advises, I put in “just 5 minutes, each day”?

What if I got more do-y, less whiny?

What if?

Some hypothetical answers:

I might clear away just two more shy square feet, just enough to get those fresh herbs in the ground. And so, avoid drying them direct in their pots. Dry, here, being a euphemism for dead. Avoid, here, being a stunning P.R. My normal M.O. being to buy, bring home, neglect, compost evidence. Repeat.

Three trips, I've made for live plants this year. Three batches, I've gotten in the ground. Zero plants, I've lost to date. The buoying power of that patch, those first basils? Beyond measure, give or take.

I might become one of those spotters and stoopers, those people who, while oudoors, can't help but pluck clover, nip seedums, pinch cilantro. I might spot invaders in strangers' yards. It might take a surprising injection of self-control to (let it go) not (just keep walking) surreptitiously stoop and pull. (I might have succeeded. So far.)

I might improve my deductive reasoning skills. Might realize shunning gloves and bemoaning the consequences is like spending all day outside barefoot, gathering splinters and grime, then concluding I loathe walking. Ahem.

I might finally dig out plants I've stared down for years, space hogs of deeply mediocre merit. I might free up space for things I adore. Things I then plant, because there is room. Things I then water, because I planted them. Things I then weed, because I adore. As far as vicious circles go, this one's pretty nifty.

I might actually stick seeds in the dirt. Quickly, imperfectly, haphazardly. But in. And once in, they're as good as dirty jeans in the wash. Which is to say: off and running, taking necessary next steps while you're doing something else entirely. Sweet peas sprouting roots while I clean up dinner is my kind of multi-tasking.

I might, on a whim, get the garden To Do's out of my head and onto our chalkboard. Communicating has never been my strong suit. Head full of private fermenting yard chores, sinking under their weight until I abandon ship? Totally my preferred method.

But by simply posting the list in public, others could see it, read it, know it. Sometimes, they might even help with it. More importantly, they're aware of it. Accomodate it. Expect it. Applaud it. There is power in getting what's in, out. (I should probably tattoo this across my forehead.)

I might start spending enough time outside to begin to look something like a habit. To have the kids come to expect an hour or two in the garden, after school. To round the corner well past five o'clock, and find coats and backpacks strewn along the path. To discover we'd not yet made it inside.

I might feel a little less Scrooge: Summer edition.

I might notice bad bugs invading everything. And then, actually do something. Might start storing my mucky shoes in the garage, so as not to track up the house. (Insert head slap.) I might start reading the forecast through weird, unfamiliar eyes. Warm, wet afternoon? Perfect planting morning! Six days without water? Get cozy with the hose. Unusually mild Labor Day weekend? Get out there and prune, plant, dig, weedweedweedweed! Then: sleep like the dead.

I might find that gardens are rather like children, growing (or withering) according to the attention they receive. Not quickly. And not completely. But visibly. And definitively.

I might adopt bizarre habits around those ten-minute windows that pop up, here and there. Taking those ten to, say, tuck in the zinnias, or cast salad seeds, or weed six square inches. I have never, ever wasted those precious pop-up opps. However, I've never taken them outside, either.

I might, when we go inside to play games, and make popsicles, and escape the skeeters, not feel that ominous omnipresent guilt that is the exclusive territory of the adamant non-gardener. It's weird. I feel empty. But a good empty.

I might become that crazy lady with the kettle, toting pot after boiling pot to the yard, to get all medieval on the dandelion-lined path. Talk about who knew? This one learning alone has improved my gardening happiness quotient by 62%. (Note to self: When boiling dandelions alive? Ixnay on the flip-flops.)

I might fall in love with that 5-minute limit, as much for the ceiling as the floor. On the guilt-inducing, hands-on-hips end, who doesn't have five minutes for the garden? On days of even the craziest sort, I'm hard-pressed to not carve out this meager ask. And pleased by the way 5+5+5+5+5+5+5 adds up, somehow, to a habit.

Equally, and maybe more importantly, it forces me back in the door, after. Not always in 5, but before 145, which is where I'd so often go astray, in years prior. I would want to weed until it was DONE. Which is like finishing the laundry, once and for all. I would burn out, curse the daisies, and stomp back inside, determined never to return.

I do not make idle threats. The limit bit saves me from myself.

And slowly, slowly, over a month—a month named May, no less, when every year past, the garden's gone from lovely to wild-crazy-overgrown-insane—I might wrangle a tiny modicum of control. Keep weeds at bay. Fix last Fall’s lapses. Dig out unwanteds. Make room for beloveds. Tuck in seeds and starts for Summer. Feel, by month’s end, instead of behind, ahead. That’s new. That’s huge.

Better: I might look out the window, and smile. This is so novel, so totally weird, I might shake my head, to gut-check my vision. I'm so accustomed to the giant indictment, the singular scold that's been my garden, I don't know what to do with delight. All the weeds, all the mess, the unparseable work: it was what outside had come to mean. Stifling. So to look out and see ground freshly worked, leaves trimmed, tomatoes caged, an actual path? Well. It might be alright.

It's also a serious pre-cursor to lunch. Weeding, turns out, builds quite the appetite. Fortunately, May is asparagus month.

We've had the most gorgeous asparagus this year, as thick, plump and sweet as any I've eaten. I'm told our harsh winter, which decimated the state's peaches, was especially good for the mighty green spears. And while I'd ordinarily grill and roast them by the bushel, I've taken an asparagus detour this Spring, braising pound after lovely pound, thanks to the folks at Food52.

Specifically, I've been braising asparagus à la Patricia Wells, in a glug of oiled and seasoned water, amply spiked with bay and rosemary. It's one of those quiet, tremulous techniques, all slow simmer and occasional blip, and yet, it yields spears of shout-out-worthy depth, drunk on their own excellent herb-y water.

What emerges is—I know no word better—silken, deeply slumpish, impossibly soft. This is no roast asparagus analog; there's no backbone left, no spine to speak of. Pinch one of these between two fingers, and it won't even think to stand. It will give, and sigh, and almost melt. And you'll be all the happier for it.

I like finger-thick spears, here; thumb-thick, better still. This is no place for waifs. The thicker the spear, the more room for imbibing the nutmeg and resin of bay and rosemary. The extended cook time appeases the fibers, rendering them toothless and tender. There is something about the finished dish that screams 'bacon'. Never mind, the whole dish is strictly vegan.

I suppose this could be considered a side, to mingle with roast chicken, or dress up polenta. But I call it lunch for one. Especially with a fried egg draped over, ideally a farm egg whose yoke you can poke. Or, a few curls of good true ham. Or a wedge of nice cheese, sharp and crumbly and wise. Or, if the weeds were particularly fierce, all three. (Did I mention the multitudes within "dandelions"?)

It feels peculiar, this braising business, when the AC is on and the sun is out and the lifelong asparagus habit has been to preserve the verve and pluck and green. But I've made this meal three times, this past week, and twice that, the two weeks before. I think it's safe to say I'm sold. And that, maybe more often than not, it may just pay to try a bold thing.

Patricia Wells' Braised Asparagus with Bay + Rosemarygently adapted from Food52Serves 1 bountifully; up to 4, as a side

The bones of this recipe come straight from Food52; changes are all at the edges. I've reduced the asparagus by eight ounces, to 1.5 pounds, to better fit my skillet and appetite. Additionally, I don't have access to fresh bay leaves, but find the dried work beautifully. Note that you will need a skillet large enough to accomodate all spears in an even layer.

Wash and trim woody ends from the asparagus. Arrange spears in a single layer in a large skillet, halving very long spears, as needed, and nestling ends into gaps, to fit. Arrange bay leaves here and there, and tuck rosemary sprig in under the spears. Sprinkle with salt, drizzle with olive oil, and add enough water to come up to bottom third of the spears.

Cover skillet, and set over high heat, staying close, just until water begins to boil. Reduce heat to low-medium, or until it holds a calm simmer, leaving lid in place for 5 minutes. (For narrow spears, remove lid after 2 boiling minutes.) Remove lid, give pan a few shakes to rotate spears, and continue to braise another 5-10 minutes, or until water evaporates and spears are very tender. Once the water has been re-absorbed, continue to cook asparagus 1-2 minutes, shaking pan once or twice, until the odd brown spot appears. Remove and eat immediately.

2013.06.03

Thursday morning, I upended the Non-Staining Blue poster paint to scrawl our annual end-of-school banner, and I could feel that it was almost empty. That if I used it, I would bottom the thing out. I almost swapped it for another, fuller color, thinking automatically, They'll want that blue, later.

Followed by, Like when later?

We did use the paints once, this Spring. They may come out again, this summer. They may not. The banner reads a little differently, this year. Welcome Kindergartener Zoë!, not Welcome Summer! As my girl has been reminding me for months, "there are no longer any little kids left in this house!"

And as she's been reminding me for weeks, she is, as of 11:30 last Thursday, officially a Kindergartener. She cannot wait. I'm prone to maudlin.

Then I stood up. And my knees made the sounds our upstairs floors make, the old creaky wood ones, so loud they could wake sleeping babes. Did wake sleeping babes. Once upon a time.

They sleep soundly through, now. And talk about backpacks and sleepovers and lunchboxes and, breathlessly, the possibility of cubbies.

I still can't paint bubble letters to save my soul.

We are all, probably, just where we need to be.

We're teetering on the edge of summer, around here, so close we can taste it. Literally.

Strawberries, scrutinized for weeks, are finally reddening, ripening. We wash each one, and slice it ceremonially, and divide each half-inch fruit into fifths. The first bunch of radishes were picked, late last week, and if not clamored over, actually tried. A triumph in my book. (Saltines and butter help.)

School's already done for one, with two more set to wrap, tomorrow, and nothing of substance between now and then save pizza and parties and rhubarb soda for twenty.

I picked up my sixth grader from school last week, on the designated locker-vacating day. I had no paradigm for this. I emptied the car, pre-emptively. In the event, this was not overkill.

We've had ice cream for dinner. (Frigid) first swims. Cards played as if alarms didn't exist. More hours outside than I can keep count. Even (almost) one whole one spent weeding.

We've had sprinklers. Popsicles. Firefly sightings. First caterpillars. Last goodbyes. I'm really, really bad at those. However, I find the crinkle of cellophane covers up honks, snorts and sniffles admirably.

The peonies have gone through their blowsy phase, their baroque phase, their John William Waterhouse Ophelia phase. We are currently in Season Four: Peony, The Final Throes.

The last, late iris is up. The honeysuckle's back. The vivid Yarrow. All signs and wonders the finish line's fast approaching. So of course, I made soup.

We had an uncharacteristically chilly weekend, last weekend, and by chilly, I mean seventies. It seemed like my last best chance to make soup, at least the not-chilled sort, between now and September. Particularly as I'd been noodling over a solution to a longstanding soup problem.

Isn't it some kind of wonderful when an imagined solution actually plays out?

(Am I the only one with longstanding soup problems?)

The soup in question was avgolemono, which is nothing more than Greek egg and lemon soup, and also, nothing less. It's a simple affair—broth, rice, lemon, eggs—short in ingredients and time, long on flavor and majesty.

It's a clever soup, turning so few staples into such triumph. The lemon arrives not in teaspoons, on tiptoes, but by the half-cup, on point, exquisite. The rice is not heavy, not enough to bog down, but little flickers of tender interest. But the eggs work the real Houdini, here, thickening and enriching the broth, which under their influence, goes creamy and velvet and the pale downy yellow of still-damp chicks. That is, when the eggs work.

The awkward bit about eggs and hot broth is all the gentle, deft coaxing required. They need someone to coach them, whisper sweet nothings, convince them they want to play nicely together. Tempering, in culinary terms. Typically, this involves whisking hot broth in small measured doses into beaten eggs. The theory is sound, baby steps, slow and steady, which should result in acclimatized eggs which won't bolt faced with heat.

Should. Very rarely, in my experience, did. Maybe I am a lazy whisker. Maybe my measured doses were more like medium. Maybe I tried every angle, but still wound up more often than not with a Chinese-Greek hybrid, Egg Drop-Avgolemono, soup streaked with scrambled whites. It still tasted delicious. Still. Hrrmph.

Then it dawned on me: lemon curd. Lime curd! Curd was the answer to the avgolemono quandry. I could blitz the eggs and lemon before tempering, just as I do when making curd, which should make the soup just as foolproof as its sweet, dessert-minded counterpart.

Should. Did! Twice, in one week. Because avgolemono, absent the scrambled egg, is pretty addicting stuff. And because, once I'd nailed the method, I realized this is a soup made for Spring. And began embellishing, madly. I topped bowls with tiny green peas, and sweet pink shrimp, and asparagus, steamed to just-tender and trimmed to bite-size and so right against that lemony sea. It brought to mind congee, that spare wonderful porridge of soft rice and endless embellishments. It brought to mind also chawanmushi, Japan's delicate steamed custard of seafood and veg. It brought to mind, finally, asparagus and hollandaise, but served by the big greedy bowlful. Then, seeing as its soup, served up again as generous seconds.

I never did use that blue. Turns out, it was dry as dust. Eight, nine years will do that to paint. Ideally, they'll yield up a little wisdom, also. And if that doesn't yet include handling the passage of time with grace and blubber-free aplomb, and if that only includes elfin victories like crossing the avgolemono finish line without scrambles, then I'll take it.

There's always next year. And purple's nice, too.

Avgolemono + Spring Vegadapted heavily from The Best Recipe: Soups & Stews by The Editors of Cook's Illustrated and Mad Hungry Cravings, by Lucinda Scala QuinnYield: Serves 4 as a Main Courseplease note: you will need a stick (ideal) or stand blender

Vegetable stock can be used in place of chicken, and the shrimp ommitted, for a vegetarian take. I've made this, also, minus the rice, and topped in this way, it remains lovely. As to the spices, they add wonderful flavor, but don't let lack of them stop you; they can be ommitted. If you do use them, tie them up in a bit of cheesecloth, or a clamp-shut tea strainer. As to peas, the best I've ever had, fresh or frozen, are Trader Joe's frozen petite peas. They go straight from freezer to strainer to bowl in our home, at least once a week, no cooking necessary. Homemade chicken broth will shine, here, but the lemon and egg are enough to carry storebought stock, handily.

Bash whole cardamom pods lightly in a mortar and pestle, or with a can from the pantry. Tip cardamom onto a small (6x6") square of cheesecloth, add bay leaves, and tie shut. Place herbs, chicken broth, and rice in a medium heavy saucepan, and bring to a boil. Turn down heat, and let simmer 15-20 minutes, or until rice is tender.

Meanwhile, juice lemons into a large, 4-cup, heat-proof measuring cup. Add eggs. Blitz eggs and juice with a blender (directly in the cup, if using a stick blender; by pouring into the jar, if using a stand blender) until thoroughly combined, 30 seconds.

While soup is cooking, prepare your toppings: slice asparagus stalks into small coins, 1/4-1/3" thick, and leave tips whole. Bring a small saucepan with 1" water and 1 teaspoon salt to a strong simmer, tip in asparagus, cover, and simmer-steam until just tender and still bright green, 4-7 minutes, depending on thickness. Drain well. Defrost peas in a strainer under running water until room temperature, 1-2 minutes. Drain well. Sauté shrimp (defrosted, and well-drained on a towel, if frozen) in a small skillet, slicked with a tablespoon of heated olive oil, 1-2 minutes, until hot and bright pink.

2013.05.24

Here is what I want you to do: Go get your hands on some true asparagus.

Now.

You'll have to forgive me. I'm not normally so bossy, but this, this is serious. By my calculation, we are most of us, right this minute, smack dab in the (circle that which applies: a. beginning b. middle c. end) of asparagus season. Somehow, I've gone all my long life without ever slipping asparagus into salad. Roasting pans, risottos, stir-fries, rice, pasta, hollandaise, yes. But not salads. People. I don't want you to suffer the same.

(Injury? Go, mend. Even asparagus doesn't trump Spring's scrapes. A wise man recently announced we'd best re-arrange our medicine cabinet, flu box to the back, first aid to the front. Colds are out; boo-boo's, in. Must be May.)

A pound will do. Though you might pick up three. Or, if you're me, clear the farmstand's decks. I prefer thick, thick as it comes, ideally thicker than my thumb. And I'm Scandinavian. I have thick thumbs.

By true, I mean the backyard kind. Not your backyard; I can't manage so-called-easy zucchini, much less something with adventitious root systems and fasciculated root types. Just big-picture backyard, from your 100-miles, your state, your wherever's-nearest-that-grows-asparagus place. Look for local, here. Please? Asparagus is May's tomato, bred to look the part and stocked year-round, tasting exuberantly of itself for only an instant. Plump, sugared, juicy, taut, a crisp sweet soliloquoy to spring.

Grab it.

Do not pass go.

(Oh, right. Teddy-bear hard-boiled eggs wait for no girl, and certainly no iconic veg. Bring "help" to the Japanese grocery, and the cart will yield surprises, guaranteed.

Admire. Grin. Eat. Back to business.)

While you're at it, gather up some crunch. I like sprouts, of any sort, and radishes, and anise-breathed fennel. Watercress would work, or celery, or even those tiny new ping-pong turnips. Anything snappy and sweet, when raw and sliced thin-as-thin.

Excellent! Almost there.

(Distracted by peonies? I know. Me, too. They're as fly-by-night as spring asparagus.

Take your time. Definitely inhale.)

Also, some herbs, parsley and chives, which even my zucchini-challenged self can (mostly) grow. Fistfuls of both. Several fistfuls, if you're five.

(What's that? Need to engineer cracker-bearing structures out of toothpicks, paper plates, and marshmallows? Because it's pushing 90° and humid as Hades? I'm so with you. Just don't forget... Asparagus. Asparagus. Asparagus.)

(Oh, the roses. Did they beckon you, too? Because they're the small scraggly potent old-fashioneds? Absolutely sniff away. They won't get you one inch closer to salad, and they certainly won't help you spot a whale. But I'd never get between a rose and a nose. Or, for that matter, you, Stead and Fogliano. Go, read their latest, loveliest. I totally did. Then fire your oven to 450°)

Lastly, some lentils. Du puy, specifically. Here I go, getting all insistent, again. Bear with me. Even I can't avoid tilting my chin and pinching my nose and sniffling a little, before muttering du Pweeee. It sounds so twee. It even rhymes. But they hold their shape brilliantly in the cooking, and go all tender and winsome in the pot, and add tiny plinks of buttery charm to salads in a way I apparently adore.

(Mud-time, is it? Hold the fork! There are mere days when the wallowing's grand and the mosquitoes, not yet moved in. Go carpe those diem. Just, you know, be quick about it.)

Sorry. I love a patch of good mud almost as much as this salad. Almost.

This salad is the working out of several asparagus salads I ate and enjoyed, these past weeks. I adored the dialogue between lentils and asparagus in Ashley's play on Ottolenghi's. Also, Heidi's pairing of spears and sprouts, and the sweet mantle tang of buttermilk. I built on what I loved best about both, and tweaked and embellished and eventually, landed happily in this bowl.

Inside is a pile-up of every good thing I appreciate about Spring. Cool shavings of fennel, sweet-kicky fresh radish, plus tangles of sprouts, for loft and snap. Buttery lentils are littered throughout like so many edible polka dots. Sunflower seeds, also small, salty, brown, are the little lentils' doppelgängers, identical save for their excellent crunch.

The dressing—which I like to drizzle on as I go, this belonging more to the layered than tossed school of saladry—is its own glory, versatile, wonderful. It's a bit like Green Goddess, but better, with twice the herbs and a clean, clear sweet that fuggy mayonnaise can never quite manage. Gently herbal, faintly garlicked, creamy and sweet with a rim of tang, it tastes like Spring bound up in a bottle.

And everywhere, that asparagus. Why I never thought to slice spears before roasting, I can't even begin to explain. Any more than I can explain overlooking this whole category of asparagus cookery. Cut first, they cook faster, and caramelize better, each extra edge, an added opportunity. Every bevel can catch, and go sticky and golden, while the insides steam-roast to just-right, sweet as candy, juicy as corn, addictive as all get-out. Good luck not plucking them, straight off the sheet.

Just don't, whatever you do, eat them all. Save some for this. For those golden-green nubbins, roasty, intense, are the thing that make the whole sing. They are the pop, the rich sticky contrast, gravitas to all that hop-skippy Spring crunch. If I knew half a thing about music I'd throw out analogies about harmony and melody and Simon and Garfunkel and the way the Avett Brothers rock Brooklyn and banjos like no other. Because that is the asparagus, here, soulful, essential, fantastically good. But you'll figure that out for yourself, if not right this minute, then soon enough.

A High Spring Salad of Asparagus, Lentils + Crunch, with Herbed Buttermilk Drizzleinspired by 101Cookbooks and Not Without Saltyield: 2 immense dinner-sized servings, or 4 nice sides, or 1 week's solo lunches

Realistically? I cook the lentils and asparagus, and make the dressing, at the week's outset, and am then five minutes—and a few shaved vegetables—away from lunch, for days. If you part it out this way, shave only as many radishes and as much fennel as you need for that day. If you make this in one go, let the asparagus and lentils cool slightly, so as not to wilt the raw veg. Mandolines terrify me, but I adore my Benriner. Hand-cutting the fennel and radishes would work just fine. You could, of course, make one big salad for dinner. But then you would have to share.

As to amounts and details, do play. I can see carrot ribbons here, or avocados, or arugula, or watercress. A soft-boiled egg. Feta, pecorino, ricotta salata. I'll add slivered snap peas, when they're ready. Ditto the dressing. Use whatever is fresh and green in your garden, all parsley, more chives, a bit of tarragon and/or dill. This makes a loose dressing, which I like, for it doesn't weigh down the sprouts and slivers. Add extra herbs if you want more body. You will likely have dressing leftover. Lovely on steamed potatoes, or as a dip for crudités, or to dunk whole roasted spears into, or or or...

Cook lentils: Bring a medium pot of well-salted water to the boil. Tip in the lentils, turn heat down, and simmer, 20-22 minutes, or until just tender to the core, but not beginning to disintegrate. Taste a few to test. Drain. Set aside to cool slightly. Use immediately, or refrigerate, up to 5 days.

Roast asparagus: Preheat oven to 450°, and place rack a few inches from the bottom. Line rimmed baking sheet with parchment. Snap woody bottoms away, slice spears into roughly 2" chunks, shorter for the thick ends, longer for the tips, and scatter on lined baking sheet. Drizzle 1-2 tablespoons olive oil and 1 teaspoon kosher salt over all, toss lightly with fingers to coat, and place in preheated oven. Roast 5-10 minutes (5 for slim spears, 10 for extra plump), shaking tray halfway through, until edges are catching and going chestnut in spots, and insides are tender, plump and sweet. Set aside to cool slightly. Use immediately, or refrigerate, up to 3 days.

Make dressing: Combine everything in a food processor or blender, and blitz until completely smooth, 1-2 minutes. Taste for seasoning and strength, adjust to suit, and blitz again, if needed. Set aside, or refrigerate, up to 5 days. Give a stir before using, if pulling from the fridge.

Prepare salad: Shave your radishes and fennel, either on a benriner, or very thinly, with a sharp knife. Gather your lentils, asparagus, sprouts, dressing and seeds. On a large platter, or in a greedy-hungry mine-all-mine bowl, build layers of goodness, drizzling on dressing as you go: fennel, radishes, asparagus, lentils, sprouts, seeds, dressing; repeat; repeat; until you've enough; finish with a final drizzle of herbed buttermilk. This keeps the dressing from weighing the sprouts down, and eliminates the need for a final toss. Dig in. And raise a glass to Spring.

2012.06.24

Technically, summer began weeks ago, on Thursday, June 7 at 2:50 p.m. (Not that anyone was counting, weeks, days, minutes, nanoseconds...) But for me, summer doesn't really begin until we nail our routine. Finalize a schedule. Establish ground rules. File every last shred of school year schrapnel.

We are there.

Here.

Greetings from Week Two.

The backpacks have been moth-balled. The paper mountains, scaled. The lunchboxes, deep-sixed. (Two years of spilled crumbs and cock-eyed thermoses and who-knows-what-wedged-everywhere takes its toll on even the finest of boxes.)

But more to the point, we have pinned down our days.

The routine, it turns out, is a rigid one, an unbending adherence to rolling with it. "It" being the weather. "It" being impromptu playdates. "It" being the what-shall-we-do-today's? "It" is the ultimate variable, come summer, as fickle and free-spirited as pronouns get.

It is eating breakfast illuminated, because it's solstice season, and the light has gone all glow-y again. It is forts strung up, and hidden under for days. It is Mario, because Mario is family, around here. And because I placed second for the first (fist pump!) time. (Diddy Kong. He's my monkey.)

Some days, it's a short walk to our much-loved little library. Some days, geo-caching in the company of friends. Some days, it is pool jaunts (and the shampoos and empty bellies and wet towels that follow).

It is eating something from the garden, nearly every day. Snow peas, snap peas, herbs, salads, the last of the service berries. Broccoli. Our first broccoli! A modest head. Completely organic. Absolutely alive with cabbage worms. A-L-I-V-E. We're talking cabbage worm condo, rent control: zero. (I love broccoli. Loved broccoli. Hope to love broccoli again. After a few years. And lots of therapy.)

It is correctly identifying a beetle, directly from Peterson. A seemingly simple task, complicated by their bizarre typology. Something about body shape and antennae length and leg shape, rather than the clearly superior and obvious schema: colors of the rainbow, polka dots versus stripes, cute versus almost unbearably ugly. I persisted, in any case, and discovered that our darling yellow ladybugs are in fact spotted cucumber beetles. Spotted cucumber beetles with their sights set on my cukes and zukes.

Henry's piggy bank is now edging toward porker status, since I placed a five-cent bounty on their darling little yellow heads.

Some days, it is me, taking a big long deep breath, in order to answer "yes" to their paper mâché pleas. We do due diligence, draw up plans, talk options, until it becomes not just mess but problem solving exercise. Oxen, it seems, are more difficult to build out of newspaper, flour and water than, say, giant eggs.

Foil, for the record, makes a nice armiture, with many more limb, head and horn options than ye olde balloon. Should you happen to have barnyard paper mâché ambitions.

It is games, whenever we can manage. There has been epic Uno, and enchanted Yahtzee, and The Very Hungry Caterpillar Game, which is surprisingly all-ages. At least when proper drama accompanies the playing of the cheese. Mister X has been a bit slow getting off the ground. I have high hopes of tracking him down, this next week.

(Finding games suitable for 4, 7, 11 and almost-40 is always interesting, but interesting, in my experience, is always better than easy. Also, it leads to novel new rules, like sprinkling magic dust on the Yahtzee dice, and other creative recipes for inclusion.)

It is getting out into the garden, in pajamas, before eight, because the garden is something else in June. Lush, intense, brand new every day, a tiny jungle we can call our own.

It is avoiding the garden, all day, like the plague, for exactly the same reasons.

Those beans right up there? The ones halfway up the teepee? Those were last Friday's beans. These are this Friday's. Over the top. Literally. And flexing their muscles, if I'm not mistaken. This is an excellent thing in a bean. Not so much in the weeds, just outside the frame.

It is building, because there is always building. It is excavating rocks, from a kit or our dirt pile. It is library reading programs begun, and inked up. It's our first summer read, picked by guess-who, but eagerly being followed by all. It's re-reading, and re-loving, The Walrus and The Carpenter. Not all Victorian lit (I'm looking at you, Heidi) holds up to contemporary kids.

Lewis Carroll, Congratulations. And thank you. Fondly, us.

(Will we make it through this stack? Good heavens, no. But options are good, and a mother can dream. Because what, praytell, is parenting, if not boundless optimism, calibrated by crumbs?)

It is a bit of writing, lest the pencils get dusty. (In comic books, for starters, lest the natives get restless.) Some science, which pops up pretty much everywhere. Some numbers, to keep our math muscles strong. And if the day's problem is x = 3 kids + 2 friends, where x = 1 full afternoon of fun, then I consider my work done. Algebra doesn't get much better.

It doesn't, in other words, look much like what I'd planned.

And I don't mind a bit.

And I like it very much.

The thing is, I enter every summer armed, with ideas and lists and notions, pre-conceived. Since we schedule nothing save the occasional swim lesson, it always seems wise to have a few Plans. Schemes. Lessons. Diversions. Distractions. Shared goals. Just, you know, to be prepared.

This year, we planned a butterfly study. And got in one good session in before genuine summer kicked in. And shelved the rest, without a second thought, because mastering underwater nose bubbles is so the priority. Besides, the very idea of it was enough to see us through the raising of two black swallowtails, caterpillar through chrysalis. (Did you know they turn to soup while inside? Digest themselves and re-build as butterflies? Why oh why didn't Eric Carle include that page?) The pessimist might say it was all for naught. Me, I rather like having a plan B, on the off chance the "B" word comes up.

From where I stand now, the "B" word seems unlikely, about as unlikely as the timing of this next dish. But I put it out there, on the off chance you have asparagus, still. We do not, though that hasn't stopped me from buying more. I can't seem to bring a close to this asparagus season. Even if "this season" now stretches into Northern Canada.

This is why.

This is stir-fried asparagus and ginger, and this, I realize, doesn't look like much. That's okay. I didn't get into it for the looks department. I got into it because I grew a little weary of asparagus' unwieldy ways. Because asparagus arrives on the same train as open windows, first freckles, and still-pleasant sun, I tend to cook it quick and whole. Roasting is a given, on repeat all spring. Grilling, if I get up the gumption. Steaming, if we want to dip and swipe. I love whole spears, finger food, the whole harbinger thing. For the first twenty, thirty pounds, anyway.

But this spring, which stretched unusually long in these parts, I found myself craving bite-sized bits. Something I could spear with a fork. Something less awkward, less napkin-needy, less floppy-foldy-bendy-drippy. Something with better table manners. Something that would still honor all that is lovely in asparagus.

In the past, I've found few better shows of vegetable respect than a searing-hot, lightning-quick turn in my wok. The past did not fail me, this spring.

Asparagus is a wok natural, fairly uniform in width and fairly high in water content. The first time I stir-fried some spears, I didn't bother to blanch them, just cut the bunch cross-wise into bite-sized bits. They got a good sear, right off the bat, before releasing just enough of liquid to flash-steam their insides. By the five minute mark, they'd begun to re-claim their juices, which had taken up flavor and funk from the pan. This release-and-catch system that happens with vegetables is one of my favorite wok features. Things cooked this way go exponential, their inner selves being extracted, augmented, re-absorbed. At one level, it's all a little Doc Ock/Spiderman. At another, it's mind-numbingly good.

Caramelized and faintly smoky at the edges, just-tender and nutty within, they had that fresh, lively, still-flopping-about quality that all good stir-fried vegetables do. I thought them tasty. I ate the whole pound. And then I kept tinkering.

I remembered a stir-fried broccoli I once loved, with a full quarter(!) cup(!) of julienned ginger. It fell by the wayside, because it required blanching first. And it will stay by the wayside, because I'm still blanching over broccoli. But asparagus waved its long, lanky hand, volunteering to understudy the part. And now broccoli has no role to return to.

Have you ever stir-fried tablespoons of aromatics? It is a surprisingly elegant thing. The asparagus goes in first, to take the heat and cushion the blow, and pick up a good whiff of that storied wok hay. The aromatics—in this case, a tablespoon of garlic, and two of ginger—follow, and mellow, and metamorphose. They trade in their signature fresh bark and bite for something deeper, richer, more well-rounded. The garlic goes nutty and rich, with twinges of that muscular sweet you get from roasting. The ginger exchanges its heat for warmth, a fragrant, heady, bright warmth that lights up each bite.

Each bite which still, somehow, enunciates asparagus. For despite the aromatic windfall, here, there's no soy sauce nor oyster sauce nor corn starch to interfere. Absent glop, the asparagus speaks sweet grassy green clearly, overjoyed, not overwhelmed, by garlic and ginger. It is unexpected, and surprising, and wonderful. Rather like summer itself, actually.

Stir-Fried Asparagus with Ginger and Garlic

In my well-seasoned steel wok, one tablespoon of oil is plenty. If you don't own a wok, cast iron makes a good substitute. (Also, a basic carbon steel wok will be the best $20 you ever spend.) As with any stir fry, have all your ingredients cut and ready before beginning. This moves on and off the stove in under ten minutes. To double, simply prepare each pound separately, with a quick wipe of the wok between batches.

Honestly, I can eat a platter, straight. But this also goes swimmingly with brown rice and bento pork, or pan-fried tofu, or eggs, softly scrambled or fried.

In a wok or heavy skillet, heat 1 tablespoon oil over high heat, until shimmering. Tip asparagus into hot oil, being careful of splatters. Let sit 30 seconds without stirring, then shake or stir well to re-distribute. Let sit another 30 seconds, undisturbed, then add garlic, ginger, salt and sugar, and toss. Turn heat down a nudge, to a still-hot high medium, and continue to stir-fry, stirring often, 5-8 minutes total, depending on spear size. (If garlic starts to brown significantly, add a bit more oil, and turn heat down a nudge.) Asparagus will be done when it is still mostly bright green, but beginning to caramelize in spots, and when ginger and garlic are golden.

Taste for seasoning, adjusting salt if needed. Serve immediately, with sesame seeds on top, if desired.

2011.05.25

We had house guests this past week. This means that I hosted. What that means, I'm only just beginning to figure out.

This isn't our first go-round with hosting, not even close. We've been bowled over, these past two years, by family and friends' willingness to make the trek. But up until Ohio I never had need to host, since everyone I knew lived within an hour's drive. Terribly convenient, this. But a little ignorant-making, also, at least when it comes to knowing how to welcome travelers.

I am vaguely aware that there's an entire art to this whole hosting business, although I only have two firm ideas about what exactly this entails. I know, after years of IKEA catalog perusing, that I'm duty-bound to offer up a heap of fresh $2.49 slippers. I know also, based on some 2004 Marth Stewart spread, that I ought to rise with the chickens and squeeze 17 grapefruits into submission. I didn't do either. But at least I know where and how I erred.

I'm too new at this house-guest-having business to nail the details, so I think about basics and do what I can. Mostly, that means I supply the necessities—clean towels, abundant Jeni's, a complimentary 7 a.m. buffalo stampede child-led wake-up call—figuring if I can't quite manage gracious, I can at least hope for memorable. And meet guest requests, as they arise.

As for that first box, I have it easy, since the company in question checks it themselves. I know from past trips that Annette and Joanne typically arrive with more memorable than jeans, t-shirts and toiletries, combined. Before they even crossed our threshold this time, they unpacked incredible tales of travel gone awry. Of late departures and missed connections and projected 9 p.m. arrivals, that wound up ending in a.m., in Cleveland.

We don't live in Cleveland.

Tack on a three hour middle-of-the-night drive through split pea fog and, I quote, "waterfalls", and, at long last, a 4 a.m. arrival. I'm inclined to believe they missed their plane on purpose. They are good that way, going all out for a story, appreciating the power of a grand entrance. I guess I'll never know, but I wouldn't put it past them. (You better believe I was up and waiting.)

And that was only just the beginning.

I won't bore you with the details, but I will pass on a few house-guest-vetting suggestions I've gleaned from this most recent experience. First, anyone who arrives bearing excellent micro-roasted coffee is automatically admitted, no questions asked. Second, throw your doors open wide for anyone with a bottomless Bananagrams appetite. Bonus pillows to those who share 2-letter word lists. (You, too, can use qi, aa, and za!) Always screen guests for flexibility in case you must abandon them on day one to repair a broken phone, say, or re-neg on much-ballyhooed squirt gun battles and barbecues. (I maintain weather management is beyond the hostess' job description. Who knew it would go from mid-eighties to mid-forties? Mid-forties and raining? The peonies and iris pretty much tell all.) Also, give special preference to people who leave your kidlets in stitches (in their sides, not their heads) and can dispatch them to bed with giggles and speed.

And while I cetainly don't require it, I will confirm that a carry-on full of kitsch is a wonderful thing. Temporary tattoos and lunch bugs and ABC magnets (the Already Been Chewed gum variety, not the Spell DOG, sweetie! classics). Foamy things, growing things, flying things with wings. Hysterical, awful zombies with pop-out brains. Plants vs. Zombies, a new hit around here. Tours of the world's first zombie-proof house. A heart to accompany our zombie brain jello mold. (We added worms this time, a rousing success. Not so gracious. Definitely memorable.) It wasn't until Henry chose Zombunny as his next monster that I realized Zombies had been quite the theme. This is what you stand to gain from great house guests: expanded horizons, in the most dubious of directions.

You would think, under the circumstances, all those guts busted, all those miles traveled, that I could at least answer a simple recipe request. You would be wrong.

I don't cook much when we have company, as I rather prefer to chit-chat and play. We did, however, manage breakfast that first bleary-eyed morning, an ad hoc affair that included ricotta pancakes. We were out of the buttermilk that our go-to calls for, so we defaulted to our runner-up, a rather misleading rank for a food I call 'cloud cakes'. Not that any of this matters, since we're talking asparagus.

I'll get around to those pancakes, Annette, really, someday. But, see, ricotta's good the year-round. Asparagus, on the other hand, is here, now, briefly, as fleeting as that construction sign, below. It popped up across the street the morning after you left town, and I'm hoping it will tide you over until pancake season returns. For what it's worth, I had to act fast and log a tardy; the text reverted to road closure blather within the hour. Timing is everything, with zombie zones and asparagus. Not so much with hollandaise, but I'm jumping ahead.

We've been eating asparagus every way imaginable, since the season started a few weeks back. I've diced it into soups, minestrone, avgolomeno, and tucked it into woks full of fried rice and gingered pork. I've braised handfuls in miso-butter and grilled inch-thick spears alongside bratwursts and roasted more pounds than I care to count. (I wasn't kidding when I said I intended to eat it daily.) But of all the ways that I love asparagus, the one that skips my heart a beat is simply steamed, with hollandaise.

Hollandaise, of course, is that voluptuous French sauce of lemon and butter, emboldened by egg yolks. It belongs to that futzy, storied family of emulsions, which also counts mayonnaise among its members. Traditional recipes are peppered with warnings, like careful, and curdle, and if it breaks... This has always been a sore spot for me, and for years my results were what euphimists might call "mixed". Pessimists would pick "dismal", without passing go. I can't be relied upon to be careful with a sauce when there are siblings to referee. And, just as a matter of principle, I'm not a fan of food that breaks.

I am, however, a wild fan of hollandaise. So when I stumbled upon the blender method a few years back, I was more than a little intrigued. After all, the blender had turned that other cliff-hanger, lemon curd, into a non-chalant, no-sweat affair. Also, in an attempt to love mayonnaise last summer, I'd made a blender batch, which was just as easy as Luisa says. And since hollandaise and mayonnaise are kissing cousins—the key distinctions being that hollandaise replaces a whiff of dijon with a jigger of lemon juice, and swaps out all that oil for 2 cubes (!) of melted butter—I figured it was worth a go. Five minutes later, I was sold. Also a little astonished, and a lot lemon-breathed. If you think hollandaise hard, you'd be wrong about that, also.

I set out to confirm this fact twice in recent weeks. Qualtiy control, you understand. The first night, I set a pan of asparagus to simmer briefly, in well-salted water just until knife-tender. In the seven minutes it took those stalks to brighten, I melted butter, squeezed a lemon, and in sixty whizzing seconds, so disoriented those egg yolks they didn't even think to mutiny. Then, last Thursday, faced with twenty minutes and a fierce hunger, Henry and I whipped up eggs benedict for lunch. To be clear, here, we usually have fruit, cheese and crackers. Maybe scrambled eggs, if we're feeling fancy. But I was tickled by the notion that with pantry staples plus a blender, this banquet brunch star could be a busy afternoon's lunch.

And this, my friends, is the dark underbelly of blender hollandaise: nothing so good should be so easy. You start scanning the kitchen for vehicles, excuses: Fish! Broccoli! Tablespoons! Index Fingers! So in the interest of modesty and mild restraint, I've decided to limit it to asparagus, for now. Because, while you can't really go wrong with hollandaise plus anything, you can't get more right than dunk spear, eat, repeat.

Any size of asparagus (pencil-thin, pinky-thick, and thumb-giant) works here, but do stick with roughly (any) one width, for even cooking. I "trim" asparagus by holding the stalk at the center and, with the other hand, snapping off the wide end; it will snap at the point where tough turns to tender.

I prefer my hollandaise on the zippy side, so replaced some of the original recipe's water with additional lemon juice. Start with 1 tablespoon, and adjust to taste. I've included the original recipe's range in liquid, which allows for a range in the end consistency, but frankly, I cannot imagine needing more than 3 tablespoons total. Two (all lemon) yields a thick, plush, billowy sauce for dipping (think artichokes, asparagus, fingers). Three tablespoons (two lemon juice, one water) produces a velvety, pourable sauce suitable for fish, crèpes or eggs benedict. Lastly, I find my stick blender invaluable here, though an ordinary stand blender ought to do the job nicely.

Please note: eggs may not be entirely cooked. We use local, organic farmer's market eggs here. Pasteurized eggs, available at most groceries, will eliminate any risk of salmonella.

Prepare asparagus: In a wide, deep skillet, bring 1" of water to a boil, then add 2 teaspoons of salt. Turn down to a steady simmer, lay asparagus in bubbling water, and leave to steam-simmer until just knife-tender: 3-5 minutes for thin, 5-7 minutes for medium, 7-9 minutes for thick. Check by poking at thickest point with a knife; knife should insert with little resistance. Alternatively, lift one spear from the water. When held by its thick end, spear should just begin to droop. Drain well.

Prepare hollandaise: Melt butter. Remove from heat, let stand 3 minutes, then skim off most of foam with a table spoon.

In a tall measuring cup (if using a stick blender) or in the blender jar (if using a stand blender), combine egg yolks, lemon juice, salt and 1 tablespoon lemon juice. Blend briefly, 2 seconds. With motor running at a moderate speed, add hot melted butter in a slow, steady stream, leaving milk solids on bottom of pan behind. Mid-way through, add a second tablespoon of liquid, lemon juice or warm water, to taste. When all butter has been added, blend an additional ten seconds, then sample for consistency and seasoning. Add additional lemon juice/water and salt/pepper to taste, and enjoy.

Note: Although hollandaise is best eaten shortly after making, this recipe makes a lot, and we held some for later. Reheat by warming gently over simmering water, and whisking in an additional 1-2 tablespoons warm water to loosen.